


Bedtime

by Nwar



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Comforting, Fluffy, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Vignette, everything was fluffy and nothing hurt, no pain no suffering just gentle bedtime routines, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 15:30:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20245123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nwar/pseuds/Nwar
Summary: On the corner of Greek street, there is a small bookshop. It is empty right now, but the flat above holds two occupants in the midnight lamplight.





	Bedtime

On Greek Street, there is a book shop on a busy corner. The people of Soho bustle around it, and occasionally into it. It has roman columns, and a painted wooden sign that shows its age through wear but not neglect. It has picture windows that show the stacks and tables of books inside to passerby. The walls are made of brick, and the inside is always just a touch warmer than room temperature. It smells like old paper, tea spilled, and sharp red wine. Books are piled and on shelves, tables stand around haphazardly as if added only as the previous overflowed. The floor is wooden and gently creaks with long held footsteps, and softly covered by lovingly eccentric oriental rugs. There is one fern, by the tall desk which serves as a cashier stand.   
It’s closed right now. It’s shelves are dark and the windows let in only the barest grey light from the streetlamps. The bell over the door is silent, and the room is warm. Above the shop, however, there is a flat, which is not empty.  
In the flat above, a shower is running. The air there is warmer, more humid, yet not stifling at all. It is the coziness of a fire burning in an antique grate, and a small pot of whole milk just boiling on the stove.   
Do you remember when we had to balance the kettle on that little swinging thing? Yes, I do, angel. Terrible century, that.   
There is a man moving through that flat, selecting an overlarge mug from a pantry to deposit two heaping spoonfuls-- three heaping spoonfuls of cocoa mix into. He carefully pours the milk into the mug, stirring as he walks back to his armchair by the fire. He sets down the mug hastily, reaching quickly for the book he’d set spine-up on the velvet arm of the scrolled chair.   
The shower shuts off. The door across the room from the fire opens and releases steam and another man.   
He walks over to the sink, grabbing a glass from the cabinet and tosses it into his other hand. He fills it with cold water from the tap, and takes a long drink. A drop of water spills out of the side and drizzles down his chin, his neck, his chest, to join the rest of the water from his shower absorbed in the soft white towel around his hips.   
Without dressing, he saunters over to the angel in the armchair. It is time for bed.   
The angel is reluctant. The book is so good, and so gripping. Brilliant writer, this one. She could be something truly special, and I would know.   
The thin man bends on knee to gently lay his ruffled, air-drying hair on the pajama clothed knee of his companion. He isn’t suggesting a stop. Just a relocation.   
A lamp light flickers on in the bedroom, through one entryway off of the kitchen and living room. The angel holds a finger between the pages to shuffle to the bed.   
The bedroom is lavish. It is not, to say, expensively decorated, just, extensively decorated. Years and years and years of possessions are arrayed in gentle indiscipline. Victorian tables overlap Persian rugs, snaking under a Tudor bed with a modern mattress. The bed sheets are a cream white, duvet and plush mattress topper forming a mushroom top of soft fabric. The pillows are arranged differently on each side; one with just two pillows flat on the bed, one with several pillows leaning against the headboard. The Tiffany lamp on the nightstand is on this side. Facing the foot of the bed is a Louis XIV wardrobe with ornate gold handles built in creamy yellow painted wood. Inside are many decades worth of clothing in beiges, whites, and soft whites. The man reaches into the drawer at the bottom to replace his towel with silky black pajamas. The angel watches fondly for a moment before climbing in beside the lamp.   
He slides in the other side of the bed, head going down on the pillows. He prefers them flatter, and they are exactly as he prefers.   
Aren’t you glad they aren’t filled with horsehair anymore? Oh, yes, indeed. I remember how they used to pop out and poke me in the cheek.   
And thus the demon sleeps, sprawled on his front, head turned to face his companion in his sleep. The angel reads in the lamp light until he finishes. Then he turns the light off, and in the golden glow of the streetlamp reflecting through the window, turns on his side and lays his head down on the pillows. He takes the hand of his partner and lays it on his own cheek, watching as the other man’s face softens further in sleep.   
And they go to bed.

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired by the Hozier lyrics, "In the low lamplight I was in, heaven and hell were words to me."


End file.
